Itch
by Solanum Dulcamara
Summary: EijiOishi Eiji reflects on Oishi, their relationship, and what it inspires in him.


Contest: Fairymage's Lyrics Fanfiction Challenge  
Fandom: Prince of Tennis  
Pairing(s): Eiji/Oishi, others if you'd like  
Rating: PG-13  
Lyrics: "I'll be captivated, I'll hang from your lips"  
Contest Premise: Write a fic based on, centered around, and/or including the lyrics assigned.

Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to the great Konomi, not me. I don't make money off of my fiction, I write for my own, and hopefully your enjoyment.  
Warnings: Eiji's POV, shounen ai (non-graphic m/m), mild language, sap/fluff/WAFF  
Acknowledgements: Many thanks and glomps to Freya-sama for beta-reading and dealing with my mania, and lots of love to Harmonie Des Anges for her continued love, support, and advice.  
A/N: Written in a frenzy after being unable to decide what to write for a very long time. You must understand that, although he has incredibly flaky moments, I firmly believe that Eiji is intelligent. For your reading ease, ADHA is Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. Also, according to Japanese blood type interpretation, people with type-O blood are overachievers and workaholics, as well as highly emotional, loyal worriers.

Itch  
by Solanum Dulcamara

My eyes travel over the courts, seeing everything: the way Ochibi doesn't really mind Momo ruffling his hair; Fuji whispering something to Taka-san that makes him blush; Inui analyzing Kaidoh's game even while playing against him; the freshmen chasing balls and cheering; the sophomores eagerly waiting for their turn to wear Seigaku blue... and in the middle of it, you stand, unsure of yourself; uncertain how to lead the team in Tezuka's absence. Your gaze is determined and your fingers are tight on the pen you always click when you're stressed. You're clicking. I frown... I can't help it. It drives me crazy when you're filled with self-doubt, second-guessing your every decision. If only you could see what I see. If you could see the intelligent, capable, good, beautiful partner who only knows how to care for everyone but himself, what would you say? Probably something about me losing my superior vision. My hand tightens involuntarily on the grip of my racket, as though, if I squeeze hard enough, I can send you a little of my faith in you.

I'm slacking... I'm supposed to be schooling Ikeda. If Tezuka were here, I wouldn't be crouched next to the fence watching my doubles partner with an obstreperous itch far deeper than I can scratch... I'd be running laps. I try to picture you ordering the laps like Tezuka and laugh, and you look over at me, surprised. I'm sure you weren't expecting me to just be loafing there and you deserve more than that, so I uncurl, sending you my trademark grin and "V" (you return the smile, but I can still only get you to flash 'victory' occasionally), and I head towards the courts, letting my racket slide over the back of my wrist and into my palm. It seems Ikeda was getting antsy... I don't know why the underclassmen are so anxious to get their asses handed to them. I allow myself one last rueful look at you over my shoulder. The crease is gone from your brow and you've put the pen on your clipboard. You look comfortable and confident, standing at the edge of the courts with your bronze skin gleaming in the late afternoon sun. You seem like a totally different person than the boy who first caught my attention more than two years agoand I'm famous for my short attention span (Nee-chan says it's shorter than that of a gnat with ADHD... she's mean that way). But I couldn't be distracted from you, the shy awkward boy with soulful green eyes that I called boring while secretly being fascinated by. From the moment I crashed into your life, I've felt that itch that I don't know how to scratch. I hated it at first; the way you knew just what to say, just how to look at me to get under my skin. I yelled at you a lot, and was stupidly happy when you yelled back. When we fight, we always make up, which means ice cream, or sleep-overs, or trips to the pet store. And the itch is still there, but it's grown warmer and more comfortable over the years. I remember the first time we made up. At the container. That hideous green metal storage shed. Who picks a shed as a special place of remembrance, anyway? People as weird as us, I guess.

Ikeda's looking all excited on the other side of the net. I need to start paying attention. I don't really feel like playing singles, but I do want to win. I always want to win. Sometimes I wonder if that's just a part of my personality, or a reaction to being the youngest of five, or if the two are such a part of each other that any distinction would be impossible. I hated losing to you in our first match, freshman year. Looking back, I really am glad that I lost that match. Would we be what we are today if I'd won? I don't really like thinking about the possibilities. I made you sleep at my house that night. We stayed up late watching movies and slept in the living room on futons. I couldn't sleep. I laid there on my side, watching you, and feeling the itch for the first time. I fidgeted and watched you sleep and ended up peeling off my bandaid in my unease. You laughed at the strip of pale skin on my nose in the morning. You have a nice laugh. It makes the itch more of a tingle. Damn, I dropped a point. I have to get my head back in the game. You're watching. It makes me nervous. It makes me excited. It makes me itch.

Game set: 6-love. "Zannen munen," I call breezily across to Ikeda, who is being consoled by that uppity Arai, but I'm still pissed about dropping that point. Not to say Ikeda's bad. He's actually really good and will probably be a regular once the seniors graduate. He's good, but I should be better. When I turn to walk off the court, you're there with a towel and a smile, and I don't have it in me to stay mad.

The terry cloth is rough against my cheeks as I rub away sweat, when you say, "You played a good game... But you seemed a little distracted in the middle." And your eyes are boring into mine and the itch is back. I try to scratch a mosquito bite on my arm to trade one itch for another. It doesn't work.

"Yeah," I laugh, and it comes out natural because I really do have to laugh at myself for making such a stupid mistake, "I was thinking about freshman year."

"What about it?" We walk off the courts together and head for the clubhouse to change.

"How we met. How we became partners. Hey, do you want to go to the shed today?"

You pause, jersey half off, peaking curiously at me from just under the hemline, "Sure, but I've got a report to do, so I can't stay out too late."

I roll my eyes and finish fastening my pants, "Oishi, I have to do the same report and it's not due for another week." Sometimes, he's so type-O.

We grab our bags and leave, Oishi pausing to lock the door. After walking in silence for a bit, he chuckles and when I raise an eyebrow, he answers, "You're thinking about how I'm 'so type-O', aren't you?" He knows I am and I know I am, so we both just laugh about it. And when he offers me a leg-up that we both know I don't need, I accept it and climb onto the shed wondering if many other doubles teams, friends, or if even many lovers reach this level of understanding.

We sit shoulder to shoulder, like always, watching the city get bathed in the sunset. We turn to speak to each other at the same time and our faces are close, maybe ten centimeters apart, and the itch is back crawling across and under my skin. It's in these moments and in the dark of my room at night that I wonder what would happen if I leaned across those ten centimeters; if I sought the warmth of your lips with mine. I have an idea. I think I'd get a little lost in you. I'd be captivated, defenseless. I think I might not be able to pull away. I'd hang from your lips, helplessly hang like I already do on your words. It's scary. It's thrilling. It makes me itch.

You reach out your hand, then, and clasp my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of your palm through the layers of shirt and gakuran. "Thank you, Eiji, for earlier," your voice is as soft and warm as your eyes. I'm not sure I can speak. You do that to me sometimes, so I just wait, and sure enough you continue, "It's just that today I was feeling particularly... ah..."

"Self-deprecating?"

"...I was going to say stressed, but that works, too. And, well, when I heard you laughing, and you smiled at me, it was like I could feel you believing in me... and I guess that just buoyed me because I want to believe in what you do, you know?"

"I know." I wonder if that's just coincidence. I'm probably over-thinking it, and as a diversion lift a hand to tweak one of your unruly bang pieces. Of course I didn't count on you pinning me to the shed (damn your superior height, reach, and strength, despite my reflexes) and tickling me. When you finally give into my cries of uncle, I can feel that my face is red, I'm panting, and my eyes are clenched shut. When I pull myself together and look up, ready to give you a piece of my mind, you're standing over me, cheeks flushed, smiling, offering a hand, and I can't breathe all over again. And the itch is racing along my nerve endings deep enough to ache. But I take your hand and stand, and we climb down together. We walk down the road from the park talking about everything and nothing and turn towards our separate neighborhoods with promises to see each other tomorrow. I allow myself one more look over my shoulder at your retreating back and smile at how light and unburdened your walk seems. Then I return to my own journey home. The itch is still there and I still can't scratch it... but I've come to think that maybe it's the kind of itch that can only be scratched by someone else. And I think that one of these days I'm going to find out if you have an itch that you need scratched.

Ochibi: kiddo or munchkin, Eiji's nickname for Ryoma  
-san: most common honorific suffix  
zannen munen: what a shame, my regrets... essentially too bad, so sad  
gakuran: traditional Japanese boy's school uniform


End file.
